


Sol Solis

by datura_damiana



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Gen, mentions of withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:05:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/datura_damiana/pseuds/datura_damiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex, Worick, Nicolas, and the progression of the sun. Three people, three ways to shine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sol Solis

I.

This is Alex. 

She woke to darkness, but a corner of the room has taken on an orange hue. She knows this, because she's watched it, sitting on the couch while her hands twitch and tremble. She can see Barry out of the corner of her eye, leering at her, waiting for her to give in and look at him. But she doesn't. She keeps her eyes fixed on that corner and stays as still as she can, save for her fingers. 

She breathes in. 

She watches as the darkness creeps away, slinking off like a disgruntled, scolded beast. It gives way to lighter shades, a deep burnt gold that melts into a watery yellow. The window is dirty. She hasn't found the time to wash it yet, even though Benriya's phone doesn't ring all that often. But it's alright. The sun has a way of doing what it wants, no matter how much debris stands in its way. Somehow, in this room, it always manages to burn away the darkness. She wonders, if the sun had shadows, what form they would take. 

She breathes out. 

By the time Nicolas joins her, light has spilled across the room. It's warm, and kind, and devoid of ghosts. Her hands have stopped shaking. 

II.

This is Worick. 

The sun is warm on his back, and he doesn't have to lift his head to know it's already afternoon. He woke up hours ago, but Alex must not have noticed, since she hasn't come to lure him out of bed with breakfast just yet. Nicolas is already out for the day, but he wouldn't have cared one way or another. Three in the morning or ten at night—either way, Nic would complain that he's late. 

He has an appointment soon. He needs to get up, to put on his clothes and his eyepatch and his dazzling charm. The client will want him to shine, just like they always do. But not yet. For now, he wants to stay right here, basking in the sun. Just a few more minutes without pretense. He likes having a bedroom, a private place, where he doesn't have to fake anything. Habit, from the old days, even if the lock is broken. 

At this time of day, he knows his bedroom will be filled with light, far too much light. It will be too bright, too garish, but he likes that, too. The Arcangelo mansion always seemed dark and cold, even in the midst of summer.

(Or maybe that was just his room. Maybe they were trying to freeze him out.)

But not this room. The sun is welcome here, and it takes its invitation seriously. Light floods this room, until it's uncomfortably hot and glaringly bright and he bangs his foot on his chair because he can't see a thing. This tiny room, full of Nic's mugs and tattered books and women's lingerie; it's cheap and dirty and it feels like home. 

Worick rises when he hears gentle footsteps near the doorway, stretching and groaning and complaining about hunger like he isn't 35 years old. Because Alex likes to be needed. He lets the sunlight wash over him a little longer, and when he hears her calling him to the table, he doesn't have to fake his smile. And it's bright. 

III. 

This is Nicolas. 

The sun hasn't even set completely, but it's already getting cold. If he jumped up to the rooftops, he could watch it slip below the horizon, making room for the stars. He could watch the sky burn pink and red until the last remnants of daylight give way to darkness. 

He could do that. But he doesn't. 

Worick would, because he's a romantic. Alex would, too. Ergastulum isn't exactly rife with scenic beauty, but she seems to like the fresh air, even if they stay close to the apartment. Not that he's noticed. 

But Nicolas doesn't care about the colors of the sky. He doesn't like to loiter around outside as it is, but if he must, he prefers the cover of nightfall. People are less inclined to bother him, once the streets turn black. They recognize him for what he is, in the dark—the monster under their beds, so to speak. Only the especially stupid approach him once the sun sets. He doesn't mind. It's good exercise. 

He doesn't care about colors or stargazing or any of that. But if he's honest with himself, and only himself, he does kind of like the sunset. He doesn't _watch_ for it, of course not; but sometimes, he catches sight of it, and he likes to stop and see the last of the sun's rays as they're swallowed by the night. It's comforting, somehow, a reminder that everything has an end, even sunlight. An end that could, under the best circumstances, be calm and quiet. Peaceful. 

Nina likes nighttime, too. She has a curfew, but sometimes he takes her late-night roof hopping, and her eyes light up as the stars whirl past. She always laughs a little louder, if the stars are out. Not that he's noticed. 

He's been gone all day. It's unlike him, but he's not covered in blood and he's not so late that anybody will really panic. They'll ask after him anyway, even though they know he won't bother to answer. They'll accept that, and Alex will serve him far too much pasta, with extra olives, because she found out he liked them. And Worick will fill him in on what he missed, and joke about having him join the brothel for the hundredth time, and conveniently forget his copy of _Othello_ on the table. For whatever inexplicable, undoubtedly stupid reasons, they will show him that they're glad he's back. That he hasn't met his end just yet. 

Not that he'll notice.


End file.
